


Butterfly and Phoenix

by Eilinelithil



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-20 13:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17622959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: In the aftermath of the destruction of the Charon in the Mirror Universe, and Discovery's return to the Prime Universe, some things are not at all as expected.  Conflict rages in the Mirror Universe as various factions try to seize control, and one in particular tries to recruit a familiar face to spearhead their campaign.  In the meantime, it seems, fate - or the universe - is playing games with the lives of Discovery's crew and a 'revenant' wants someone to make good on their word, and will go to any length to get their own way.  Weaving together, canon, non canon, and a lot of wishful thinking - and trying to make sense of the ideas in my head.





	1. To Give No More

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own them, just taking them out to play. Mistakes and assumptions are mine. Many thanks to Nacey for reading over this first chapter for me, and for all the encouragement.

_The record will show that the debris originally identified as the wreckage of the_ USS Discovery _was made in error by an overzealous, or perhaps terrified, junior officer stumbling across the fragmented ruin of some un-named ship in the overture of a devastating war._

_The truth will be classified._

_The record will show that the_ Discovery _returned from a vital, secret mission behind enemy lines and returned with the means to turn the tide of the war; a lie couched within the truth._

_The truth will be classified._

_The record will show that the_ Discovery's _commanding officer... that_ Discovery's _commanding office was lost - killed in action in the execution of those orders, that mission._

_The truth..._

_Personal Log, Admiral Katrina Cornwell._

 

Not every cage is a prison,  
nor every loss eternal.

 

It vaguely registered to him that the heat of a thousand million suns was strangely comforting after the cold steel of cowardly treachery had taken him from behind.

_She reached the phaser, came to her feet with it aimed squarely at him, an expression on her face as though he had just betrayed her; let her down in the worst way - and when she spoke, he understood._

_"We would've helped you get home if you had asked. That's who Starfleet is. That's who I am. That's why I won't kill you now."_

_But too late. He'd forgotten Georgiou._

_"But I will..."_

It reminded him of the languid warmth that had spread through him in the moments before he realized betrayal at _his_ Michael’s hand. He had underestimated her, but wait… not her - _them_.  He had underestimated both of them. One was dead at his hand; the other had been so _close_ to being his that he'd grown complacent and allowed her to become a distraction.

_She fought him, and fought hard. Everything in him screamed not to forget that she wasn't his Michael, wasn't the princess he'd guided, nurtured... and all that had come after, but still..._

_"Don't make me have to kill you..."_

_"You won't."_

_She read him too well. He'd let himself get too close._

Deadly. He wouldn’t suffer that same sentiment to happen again.

There was beauty in this moment, he noted, an absurd serenity that chased away any thought of fear, regret, even the anger and self-deprecation. It was present in the blue-green motes of what he could only assume was the protomatter of the mycelium themselves that began to gather, swirling around him, over him; a caress.

_When was the last time?_

He frowned at the leap his mind made, and the image conjured in its wake that even the mycelial euphoria could not keep at bay; of his time in the other universe, using what he'd learned of his counterpart's relationship with the admiral in an attempt to manipulate her, disarm her, divert her. He'd let his guard down, and vulnerable had almost revealed too much.

_The touch was light, too light and he felt it to his core. Even before he was fully awake one hand was on the phaser beneath his pillow, the other at her throat as he rolled on top of her; pinned her, and then realized what he'd done._

_"I'm sorry... I'm not used to having anyone in my bed."_

_"You sleep with a phaser in your bed and you say that nothing's wrong!"_

It wasn't wrong... not for him; not for anyone here.  Here it was normal. Trust no one, not even the one that shares your bed, no... _especially_ not the ones that share your bed. The mycelium caress swirled around him again, carrying away the thought, and as he mused, he realized a feeling of dissolution, the heat fizzing over the whole of him, becoming cooler, becoming…

... the sudden comprehension that he shouldn’t be realizing anything at all, and afterwards, there was nothing but pain.

 

**  ** **

 

“Do you have him?”

The hologram wavered as the numerous disruptions across all Imperial systems amplified in the chaos left in the wake of the _Charon’s_ destruction; the vacuum left in the abrupt end of Georgiou’s reign.

The captain glanced towards ops, a terse, “Well?” erupting from him when he received no confirmation.

“Working on it, Captain, I--”

“This disruption won’t last forever, Mister.  This will be our only chance to get past their security.” The captain turned back to the holographic image still fading in and out, whatever audio accompanied the image had become lost in the still compromised communications arrays. “We will secure the asset. You have my--”

“Captain,” swearing soft, and knowing it could be nothing good, Captain Osborne looked over at the tactical officer, as she warned, “Incoming. Impact in 40 seconds.”

“Do we have him?”

 

**  **  **

 

_...command of a starship should it be deemed necessary._

_Should it be proven, with admissible evidence, that the flag officer who had assumed command was medically or psychologically unfit for command…_

At that thought, a bubbling of laughter, bordering on hysterical, escaped his lips and his body trembled with the effort of catching hold of it, certain he was somehow being observed, in spite of the absolute, lightless black of his surroundings. He would not give them that.  He would never give them that.

They had taken, by his estimate, at least two hundred days of his life. He refused to give them anything more. It didn't matter to him what they did to him, how hard they drove him, how much they hurt him; tortured him - deprived him of food, water, sleep, light; basic human needs, he would _not_ submit.

Pushing himself back against the wall as hard as his strength would allow, he levered himself to a semi-standing position and inched his way around the narrow box of a room, leading the way with his fingertips until he felt the tingling of the energy that secured the door. He pressed himself against its punishing waves, swallowing the hurt that gathered in the center of his chest until it burned at his heart and left him gasping for breath.

“Lorca, Gabriel,” he said, his voice a broken, hollow scratch in the silence. “Captain. SC0037-0146BUR.”


	2. Fight or Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't own them, just taking them out to play. Mistakes and assumptions are mine. Many thanks to Nacey for reading over this chapter for me, and for all the encouragement.

Hate is never conquered by hate.  
Hate is conquered by love

 

“Lorca, G...abriel. Captain. SC...0037-01...46B--”

In the instant before the hissing crackle of the force-field abruptly ceased, and with an inarticulate sound, half way between a cry and a snarl he tore himself away from the searing energy that scorched the flesh of his back. He stumbled, trying to regain his balance, fell momentarily to his knees before pushing up again, trembling as he turned toward the silence, trying to make sense of it.

Barely lucid enough to put the pieces together, he noticed the absence of movement in the air that usually came from the overhead vent; and though the light remained out, the _faintest_ of slivers; the hint of a glow came from beneath the space where the cell’s door was usually shielded by the unyielding instrument by which he’d remembered himself, his reality… his pain.

A wave of dizziness swept over him and he dug his fingernails into his palms, fisting his hands so tightly that the insides of his arms began to ache, to fight back the approaching faint; the uncomfortable, tingling itch that spread over his limbs. Had he pushed himself too far this time, to purge the echoes, the dreams… nightmares?

 

**  **  **

 

“We have him.”

“Impact in five seconds. Four…”

The two bridge officers spoke at once, but Captain Osborne felt a surge of triumph and ordered, “Evasive maneuvers. Helm, get us out of here.”

The deck bucked and tilted as he got to his feet, as the bridge crew began to execute his orders, thrusters firing to turn the ship out of harm’s way sufficiently for them to engage warp drive, a course already plotted; away from danger. Osborne’s mind was already on other things.

“Ross, you have the bridge.”

He turned then to head toward the exit, anxious to view his prize - though technically not _his_ alone. They had been planning this for as long as he could remember, knowing that sooner or later _someone_ would try and depose Georgiou.  He couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly at the irony of how it had all turned out - and how much _better_ this was than anything they could have planned.

 

**  **  **

 

By the time he realized that the brightness was not the result of impending unconsciousness due to his self-punishment, but was instead the enveloping energies of a transporter beam, the featureless, empty black of his prison cell had already begun to resolve into the functionally furnished, busy surrounds of a starship transporter room.

Though it was only dimly lit, after the absolute lightlessness of his cell, even that was dizzying, and stung his eyes to the point where tears streamed over his cheeks. The sensory overload was all that it took to momentarily overwhelm him in his attempts to conquer his weakness.  His legs buckled and he folded to the deck. He allowed himself a moment to try and catch a breath, squint enough to force his eyes to adjust, to stop watering; his vision to clear, guessing he’d need it, and his strength if not his wits- though both would be preferable. He had no doubt of that. He was afforded little chance of either.

Even as he pushed his aching arms beneath him, coloring the grey deck with streaks of red from his lacerated palms, two uniformed men approached and hooked him by the upper arms, half in support and half to begin to drag him from the transporter pad. Conflicting emotions, opposing reactions tangled within him for a moment before adrenaline surged, and the instinct to fight won out.

He twisted his arms to grasp those holding him, scrabbling to get his feet beneath him, uncaring that his muscles screamed in effort. One knee met the deck, giving him greater leverage, and snarling to gather the primal energies given to him by his sudden fight response, he swung the two men toward each other, and unprepared, they tangled together, giving him time to free a hand and swing a tight fist wildly, and hard, into the groin of the nearest man; fighting _down and dirty_ with the necessity to achieve freedom.

The man doubled over, moaning and fell away, but the other stepped back, reaching for what looked like a baton, but which, he knew, held some kind of charge. He caught it as the soldier jabbed it toward him, growling as the numbing rush of energy flowed down his arm. He pushed up from his knee to try and rush the man, even as the first regained his feet and struck him hard - an elbow to the small of his back.

Fresh pain blossomed, leaving his ears ringing; leaving him gasping for breath, but still he fought, vaguely registering the opening and closing of the door; the arrival of another; lost in instinct, like a wild animal, responding only to the threat.

“Stop!” he heard the word, recognised the commanding tone, but did not - would not - comply, and neither, it seemed did his opponents. “Stand down!”

Only then did he realise the words were not for him, but for his opponents, when suddenly they pulled away, wary and ready for his continued assault, but obedient to the words of the newcomer.

“Lorca, please…!  You’re safe! Stop!” the new voice called to him.  “Gabriel Lorca!”

Over and over, his name, assurances of safety until he slowed, until adrenaline began to drain and his body trembled with the effort of keeping him upright, on his feet.

“Gabriel Lorca,” the man said one last time as that strength failed, and dropped him back to his knees.

“Captain,” he half gasped, half breathed the words, “Captain Gabriel Lorca.”

He pitched forward, the edges of his vision becoming darker, fading, as the man’s cursing gasp reached his ears...

“Fuck!”

...the touch of a hand at his neck.

_Yes, I’m still alive, you bastards!_

“Get this man to sick bay, these burns need treatment. He needs help.”

“No!” Somehow he reached out to grasp the wrist of the man now crouched at his side and whispered, “No sick bay. No doctors,” before consciousness abandoned him.

 

**  **  **

 

Captain Christopher Pike reached out, hesitating only a moment before pushing the button at the side of the computer screen to kill the display, and sat back in his chair, letting what he’d just read wash over him, sink in and fill in all the little nooks and crannies that made him who he was.

“Computer, erase and shred classified data file DSC011,” he said.

 _Working_.

He pinched the bride of his nose. None of this was going to make his mission any easier, and he found himself almost grieving for the reputation of a man he’d known only from general reports that crossed his desk, and uncertain whether he felt… anger or admiration for the doppelganger who - without a doubt - had advanced Starfleet’s progress in the war with the Klingons almost as much as his actions had stimied it.

“Shit!” he said aloud.

“I beg your pardon, Captain?”

He couldn’t help but smile faintly as the door to his ready room opened and his second in command walked right on in. She didn’t stand on ceremony, neither of them did. They understood one another and for that reason they worked well together. She was a damn fine first officer.

“Just this… damned mess with the _Discovery_ and all,” he answered, turning the chair slightly to face her.

“Well this, ‘damned mess’,” she told him with a quirked eyebrow at his choice of words, “Will be within communication range by the time you get out onto the bridge, and will likely pick up our distress call.”  She handed him a padd, which he happily accepted and looked over, nodding before handing it back with a smile as she told him, “I thought you’d want to know.”

He stood, straightened his uniform, and turned his back on the desk just as the computer finally reported back.

_Classified data erased and shredded._

He chuckled at the irony of it as he followed Number One out onto the bridge.

“ _USS Discovery_ in range, Sir,” the comm officer said, a note of surprise or confusion in his voice as he went on, “They’re… they’re hailing us, Captain, using… Morse code.”

“Well then let’s not be rude,” he answered, still deep in the bitter irony of the situation, “Send them a hello, in kind, and request permission for our away team to come aboard.”

**Author's Note:**

> In respect of Lorca's Service number, I made the best sense of all the information (conflicting as it is) online. Unless and until I find out otherwise, that is as it stands.


End file.
